God From The Machine
by DrWorm
Summary: Being cold is but a taste of what we will experience after death. "There are only shades of grey. Shades of grey and sometimes a deus ex machina.” Harry and Remus light slash.


Notes: This story is kinda… errrrrum… cheesy? Oh well. 

This started out being a Harry/Draco story, if you can believe it… then I decided that, no matter how good Obake's "All Torn Down" is, I just am not a regular Harry/Draco fan. And I suck at writing it. So… Harry/Remus it is!

God From The Machine

When people describe themselves as being 'chilled to the bone' I wonder if they really understand the cold. Cold is not a feeling that penetrates to the bone. Cold is a feeling that prickles and dances on your skin, fleeting and momentary for hours on end. And while it dances, it sings in your ears and plays tricks with your eyes. But cold never goes beneath the surface. It is not strong enough to stab at your bones or gouge at your eyes or lull you into a killing sleep. It is time that does all of these things, time you spend out in the cold. 

Nevertheless, I find myself glancing at my fingertips and thinking my bones have frozen into stiff icicles. I find myself cursing the cool stone of the school's every wall and the numerous drafty hallways I've been walking down again and again. I am the eternal hypocrite, he who knows he is wrong but does not care. Sometimes I wonder how I ever achieved the universal appearance of the glowing golden boy, since it is apathy that truly rules my heart now.

But the halls are so cold and I'm so tired; all I want is the comfort of an empty common room and a warm fire. I pull my robes tightly around me and walk faster, hoping this will ease the pain of the biting cold. It doesn't, but the false hopes do well to keep my spirits high. 

How strange it is to walk these passages alone, without friends or foe, without people. They've all gone for holiday, gone to be with their dear families in joyous celebration. And, for once, I can actually muster the resentment to be jealous and angry. Angry with Ron and with Hermione, who both have the picture perfect families that I could have had. But don't. And it's at times like these, when the rest of the world realizes how blessed it is, that I am able to see how poor I am and how little I have to call my own. 

In some silly parody of rage, I begin to run blindly down the hallways, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes and, to my great dismay, trickling great and wet down the flesh of my cheeks. It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not _fair_! I don't understand, not at all. Why me? Why not choose some other child to be so famous, to be so great, to be the one who lived? 

But no… no, the Fates choose blindly and spin the tapestries of our lives without second thought of what we are and what we will be living. They spin the tapestries and weave the great stories, later expecting us to trudge behind picking the pieces and feeling the distress. 

I hate being alone. I hate being frightened. I hate crying. And I hate being lost, which is the point at which I have found myself to be currently. I am in a part of the castle I don't recognize; the portraits on the walls are giving me looks of disdain from down their haughty noses, and it is making me feel uncomfortable. I think some of them can see straight through my robes; I suddenly feel strangely naked beneath all my layers of winter clothing. Still others, I'm afraid, can see through my skin, can glean my most personal thoughts and desires from only a glance. I am so unnerved by this that I hug myself in futile protection and tread lightly and quickly along the stone passages. Except…

Except I don't know where I'm going and this fact slows my progress tremendously. My eyes pour over every hallway, every crevasse in every stone, looking for a way out, for a route that I recognize. But all in vain. All in vain, so I take a timid step around the corner closest to me, blindly hoping it will lead me to some clues.

Another dark, cold corridor. In abject frustration, I give a bleating cry and swing my hand to beat senselessly against the solid rock of the walls. My knuckles connect solidly with an audible 'crack!' that echoes in my angry ears. I am breathing hard, my hand throbs with tingling pain and the sharp pricks that crackle across your skin when you break the icicles. Warm, red blood is trickling beautifully between my fingers; I love it so. The pain acts as a harsh wake-up to my sluggish mind and instantly the world seems clearer. I take in my surroundings calmly, gingerly lifting my injured hand to my mouth and letting my little, pink tongue taste the watery liquid. It is salty and sharp to the tastes of my palette, and I find myself grimacing involuntarily. The tiny rivers have dried into crimson streaks, making a startling contrast to the pale, papery complexion of the rest of me. 

Suddenly I am afraid. Hurting myself has never been one of my traits. I never try to hurt myself; oh, no… that's not me. I only revel in the pain when it's an accident. I only sit and stare, fascinated, when I am not the one to shed my own blood. 

This is not me. I do not disfigure my skin.

"Harry," A soft voice whispers in my ear and for a moment I am startled. Who is still wandering the halls; who is quiet enough to have snuck behind me while I was transfixed in reverie? I turn sharply, try to hide my hand within the folds of my robe, but long, thin fingers have already caught hold of my wrist. Sad and tawny eyes stare at the pattern of my blood before catching my gaze. 

"Professor," I breathe, words escaping me in the barest of moments. His eyes shift from my eyes, to my hand, to my eyes again. A lock of golden-brown hair streaked with a light, clean grey has fallen across his forehead. I can't help noticing how he's let his hair grow over the past several months. It's now long enough to pool elegantly around his thin shoulders and trickle prettily down his back. "Professor Lupin, I-"

He waves his hand to dismiss the beginnings of my explanation. "Don't bother, Harry. You won't be able to find the words." I can only stare at him, my mouth slightly open and my eyes wide with surprise. But, thankfully, he's not paying any attention to me; he regards the blood upon the back of my hand with a small, sad smile. "You won't find the words." 

I want to speak, but somehow I cannot. Professor Lupin looks so pained and unhappy that it frightens me. I don't know how to offer comfort, especially not to him. Because I can't replace the friends he lost, I can't cure his lycanthropy. I feel particularly powerless staring at him and realizing that I don't know what he lives for. For Dumbledore? For his students? For some small gleam of hope in his soul that, someday, everything would turn around and be the way it used to be?

He looks at me and I want to cry. For him, for me, for the sadness he feels he can never share. And his eyes show me the same pity. "Will you come with me, Harry?" He says softly, fingers drifting to tangle with my own. Surprised that a grown man would be voluntarily holding hands with a gawky sixteen year old, I can only nod my head. 

Silently, he leads me back the way I had come, but makes a sharp turn into a very gloomy corridor. We take a few steps before being plunged into a lightless, soundless womb of darkness. But it is colder than any womb should be; I stay as close to my guide as I possibly can, trying hard to acquire any warmth or definition from his fragile body. But my eyes cannot even see him; I can only feel his hand upon mine. 

Suddenly and abruptly, I feel him stop. The sound of ancient creaking fills my ears and a bright, vibrant light fills the hall. I realize that he is taking me to his private quarters, and I am filled with unease. Perhaps he would think this incident necessary to report to McGonagall? Or… worse yet… Dumbledore? I would hate to have them look at me with anxious pity in their eyes, as if I was a delicate and fragile creature who needed to be kept under watch at all moments of the day. I hate being treated that way; I loathe it. 

I hope that is not what is on his mind.

He tugs me into the tiny flat that has been provided for him. We go straight to his lavatory, where he turns the spigots on the faucet of his sink so that a steady stream of lukewarm water flows down the drain. He wets a washcloth and cleanses the blood from my hand. But he does not look at me, not once. When he has finished, he turns and leaves, expecting me to follow. I do. 

We go back to his living room. "Please… sit." His voice is so frighteningly calm that I do as he asks without thinking, sitting gingerly on the edge of an old, worn sofa. Now I am sure I will be reprimanded. 

But… no. All he does his begin to remove his robes. Slowly and methodically, he pulls them off and folds them; beneath, he wears a well-worn, plain white dress shirt and threadbare grey slacks. My heart jumps just a little for this poor, simple man. 

After draping his robes over the arm of the sofa, he begins to roll up the cuffs of his shirt. That is when I realize what it is he is really showing me.

Scars. Pink, purple, fleshy scars trailing like slugs on his forearms. They criss-cross and intertwine in an ugly coital union. Some are long and ragged; they look as if they were made by the sharp claws or teeth of a wild animal. But some- and these are the most frightening- are straight and clean. They were obviously made deliberately and by human hands.

"You see?" He asks, although it really isn't a question. He holds his wrists out too me; they have obviously taken the brunt of his aggression. "The wolf began it, Harry. Not me."

"Did you…?" I'm so stunned and frightened that my voice leaves me. "Did you make all of those?" My voice is nothing more than a whisper. He nods solemnly. 

"Yes, I did." He sat beside me on the shabby couch, his eyes wide and sad. "I'm sorry Harry; I really don't mean to frighten you." He hesitates momentarily. "But I can't bear the thought of you doing anything similar to yourself."

"Why?" It's the only question I feel capable of asking anymore. "Why do you do it?" Professor Lupin sighs and runs his hands through his hair.

"That's a very hard question to answer," he settles his chin in his hand and stares off into space. I notice that he seems more hesitant to move his arms a great deal now that his scars are exposed. "But I suppose I do it for the same reasons you do."

"I don't do that," I answer hurriedly, and he smiles.

"No, of course you don't. Not in the same ways…" He pauses. "Why do you _want to do it, Harry?"_

"I don't!" My answer is a little too hurried, my voice a little too shrill. He smiles again, sadly.

"I think you do, maybe just a bit." He reaches and takes my hand again. His fingers are long and elegant. "Do you like to watch yourself bleed?"

"Yes…" I whisper, my attention focused on the skin of his forearm. The scars undulate with the movement of his muscles. 

"Ah," He knows I'm studying him, and he lets me. "It's okay to like it, Harry. But, don't…" His throat closes up, and I see the shimmer of tears in his eyes. "But don't _do it, Harry. It's just not worth it." _

With one finger, I stroke the lines of his healed wounds, gently feeling their texture. The skin that stretched over his cuts takes the form of a smooth, raised bump. It is easy to feel the distinction between the evidence of his pain and his healthy, unblemished skin. 

Oh… but the more I look at his arms, the more I can see that what looks like healthy skin is actually the varied remnants of old, white scars. Some have actually begun to curve inward and become disturbingly concave with age. I shiver, and he notices.

"I used to think they were beautiful," his voice is scarcely a whisper; I have to listen hard to hear him. "When I was a child… maybe they were beautiful." He pauses a moment to chew thoughtfully on a nail. "I'm too old now…"

"No, you aren't," I say without thinking. "And I think, on you, they are beautiful. Just… maybe not on me." He smiles half-heartedly, still picking at his nails. 

"No, you're beautiful the way you are." Suddenly the moment feels awkward; I blush at the compliment, suddenly realizing that there may be more to his friendliness than I had thought previously.

Or perhaps it's wishful thinking.

"Do you still… do that?" I venture my question after a long moment's silence. He takes another moment to answer, face solemn and stone-like.

"Yes, I do." He anticipates my second question before I have time to ask it. "On my legs, now. I've exhausted my arms." He tosses his head slightly. "You don't want to see."

"Oh." Again, silence. There's something I want to say, but I am nervous to say it. I don't want to make him cross with me; I am enjoying sitting in the warm with his hand in my lap. But I think it's the sort of thing that needs to be said. "Why is it that you don't ever want me to cut, when you still do it yourself?"

He stiffens somewhat, and I can see him gnawing his lower lip in anxious thought. I am becoming more and more sure that he has no answer for me, until…

"An intelligent question," he runs his tongue over the teeth on his upper jaw, "And, honestly, I have no good answer for you. I wish I did." He lets my hand drop, protesting and sweaty, back onto my knee. "Selfishness, perhaps." He smiles, and this time I can see his eyeteeth; I am eerily reminded of the part of him that is inherently wolfish. "I have been mutilating-" The word sends a shiver up my spine. "-myself since I was a small child."

"But why?" His roundabout way of speaking is beginning to frustrate me. If he truly has something useful to say to me, I want him to say it and get it over with. "_You of all people should have a good reason for doing it!"_

"And so should you." His eyes are serious and solemn as he stares at me, unblinking. "I began so that I could take the pain out on myself and not hurt others. I continued because it was a way to punish myself. Today, I cut because I think it allows me to better handle my emotions." A look of serenity graces his face. "Who knows why I'll do it tomorrow?"

"I do it because I'm angry," The confession escapes me before I even understand my thoughts, and I blush with the revelation. He only nods and takes both of my hands in his.

"It's not a bad thing, Harry. I want you to understand that. But it is a frightening thing to many people." He blinks. "Can you blame them?"

"No," I whisper, far more fascinated by the smooth, tapered length of his fingers. "I think it would scare me if I didn't…" My voice trails off, but he instantly grasps what I was trying to say. 

"Yes," he nods. "It's very much undefined, Harry. The human psyche, I mean. People are not at all hesitant to fight Voldemort and his supporters because the Dark Arts are very concrete. It's easy to know that taking innocent lives is not right." He pauses. "Or… it should be easy."

"But…" I scramble to finish his thoughts. "It's harder to know whether mutilating yourself or… killing yourself… is just as wrong."

"Mmmm…" He stares into his lap. "It's the ambiguity that slays them every time." And then I feel him let go of me; I feel the slight release of the material of his couch as he rises from it. "The moral questions of right and wrong will break our society, Harry. Never forget it." He begins to roll down his cuffs as he speaks. "There is no right, there is no wrong. There are only shades of grey. Shades of grey and sometimes a deus ex machina."

"Deus ex machina?" I repeat carefully. The word is not unknown to me; I've heard it more than once. But it's the sort of phrase people will use indistinctly and not give any hint to its meaning.

"Deus ex machina means 'god from the machine' in Latin," he explains gently. "It was an old plot device used by the Ancient Greeks in their tragic plays. Toward the end, a god would descend from the heavens and resolve all of the plot's complications. Of course, the 'god' was just an actor suspended from a crane." He smiles. "'God from the machine.'"

"I see." I didn't, really. "But now… you don't mean that _literally, do you?"_

"Oh, no!" He covers his mouth and giggle politely. When our eyes meet again, I can see the slightest trace of mirth in his face, the happy shine in his eyes, and I wish that he would laugh more often. "No. In modern times, it is most commonly used to refer to a complicated situation that is resolved easily and quickly. Or… well, or divine intervention, I suppose."

"Divine intervention," I mumble to myself. I at least know what _that is. "Do you ever hope for that? Divine intervention? Deus ex machina?"_

"Who doesn't?" He shrugs. "But I know there is no such thing, so why bother putting true faith in it?"

"How do you know?" I counter. There's something disturbing about hearing kind, benevolent Remus Lupin talk as if there was no faith in his life, no faith in anything.  No optimism, no love. Nothingness. It's disturbing because I know I was thinking the same thing about his existence earlier; I now feel guilty for it because I can see how much it pains him. I finding myself thinking about how much I'd like to be the one to give him the love he so rightly deserves. "You don't know."

"Then I believe it." He spits out, eyebrows knotted in anger. But I don't think he's really angry with me. "It's _my life, Harry."_

"Yes…" I push myself off of the couch and to my feet. "But that doesn't mean you can't have faith in things." I'm desperate to convince him of… what? Something so intangible that I cannot place my finger on it.

"Harry…" He says my name gently, but I can see that tears are catching on his eyelashes as he blinks quickly. Little, crystalline pearls. "Please… all of this is my business and, although I'm happy that you want to help, I just think-"

"I won't cut myself," I interject, taking a step closer to him. "Is that enough to hope for? I won't do that, I swear. Never. For you." I don't want to see him cry; it scares me when adults cry. It always has. Because they're supposed to be in control… and I can't always deal with the fact that maybe, just maybe, adults don't have any more answers than children have. 

He bows his head and pinches at his sinuses. "All right… I'll hope for that."

"You don't have to hope for it," the words sound silly coming out of my mouth, wordy and overdramatic. I don't care. "You can have _faith in it."_

Another beautiful smile, albeit a sad one. "Just like your father… he would have been so proud of you."

Unexpectedly, I feel myself stiffen. "I don't want to hear about what my father would think of me," I say, feeling both angry and disappointed. "I want to know what you think… Remus."

I don't know why I called him by his first name, but it seems to get the reaction I wanted. He looks up, sharply, and studies me momentarily, mouth agape. "I think… I think you are a vibrant, intelligent… lovely-," he hesitates to say the word, and it sends a shiver of anticipation up and down my spine, "-young man."

I stride to his side, emboldened by his compliments, and take his hands. He tries to pull back, but I won't let him. Instead, I rise on my toes and kiss him, just slightly, on his parted lips. I can feel him gasp, but it doesn't deter me. In fact, I press against him harder, sliding my inexperienced, but inquisitive tongue over the seal we've made between our mouths. He's enjoying it; I can tell by the way he squeezes my hands and moans softly when I press my hips against his. 

I break our union with a gasp. "Deus!" I lean into his neck and place my lips near his ear. "Deus ex machina," I breathe, doing my best to remember the correct pronunciation. "Have faith in it."

With that statement, I am gone, tearing through his quarters and out the door, running fast down the hall. There's a sudden lightness in my chest, an uncustomary happy, warm feeling. As I resume the search for my own tower, I am no longer cold. My jubilation melted my ice.

I finally have my family.

Gloria in excelsis deo.__


End file.
